The case of the vanished lady
by m.tarnina
Summary: Trying my hand at this retelling thing that's all the rage, here's "Vabank" in Mouse London, retold from the detective point of view. Basic plot belongs to Juliusz Machulski. Rated for white-collar crime.
1. Chapter 1

During the many years of my friendship with Basil, the consulting detective renowned in the Mouse Kingdom, I served in the honourable role of a chronicler for his unusual practice. Some of my notes I have published almost immediately after they were made, some shall never see the light of day. The case, however, that the present story is concerned with, is one of those the printing of which I was obliged to postpone for their participants' sakes. Only several weeks ago I was brought a telegram from my friend, saying "Webster dead. Free to write the story."

May it be that this story pales against the other mysteries solved by Basil in the memorable year 1895, a one veritably packed with cases. We all remember the conundrum of canaries a man named Wilson used to train, the terrible story of the Temple poisoner, meeting whom was very nearly the death of us both, the tragedy of poor, poor, miss Hawthorne. The story of the blue vitriol smugglers is also awaiting its turn. Despite this, I think the happenings I am to describe, bloodless as they are, are worth attention, partly as a cautionary tale.

The autumn that year was wet and so foggy you couldn't see the end of your own outstretched paw. Even criminals, it seemed, were loathe to leave their warm burrows. Unless forced by most urgent causes, those days nobody would venture into the foggy streets of London.

For the past few days Basil and I have been staying in our Baker Street rooms; myself reading medical journals alternately with penny dreadfuls, he tidying up his files and fiddling melodies as haunting as befit the weather. That evening I was sat by the fire, a plate of Mrs. Judson's delicious cheese pancakes on hand, an article on hereditary hearing loss in my lap, starting to wish I was afflicted with it.

"Basil..." my groan was drowned out by the moaning of the violin he was torturing, staring into the mist out of the window. Rubbing at my forehead, I reached for a cup of tea.

Basil's terrible music stopped suddenly on a long, groaning note.

"Thank you." I sighed. With a tut, Basil strode to the other side of the room to reverently put his instrument on the mantel exactly in the moment when someone knocked at our door.

"Ask Mrs. Judson for some more tea" he called, opening.

"Hello, Gregson! What brings you in that weather?"

But the first mouse to walk in was not the inspector. A stooped individual, his fur dirty yellow and tufty from the moisture, came in, casting fearful glances on Basil and me. The pitiful image was rounded out by our guest's clothing, well made of expensive fabrics, but wrinkled and incomplete. All my medical instincts, not to mention my common sense, would have balked at going out in such a weather without a coat, let alone in my shirtsleeves.

Gregson, tall and proud in his dark topcoat, went in, squeezing past Basil, and carefully closed the door behind him.

"Really, it should be obvious" he said, his tone a touch surly.

"Yes, of course I read today's paper" Basil pushed a stack of papers off an armchair to offer it to our soaked guest. "I don't see, however, how I could be of help, mister Adams."

"I'm innocent!" the yellowish individual croaked, staring pleadingly at my friend. Gregson shrugged.

"What can I do. He's stubborn."

"I'm innocent!" the other repeated. "Get me out of this hornet's nest, I beg of you! Money is no issue! It's a matter of-"

"Mister Adams." Basil interrupted, sitting down and steepling his fingers. Adams shuddered, Gregson his his amusement with a twitch of his whiskers.

"I don't think there is much I could do for you." He bent to pick up a newspaper. "All evidence is against you."

"I kept telling him that on the way here" Gregson said.

"I'm innocent!" I've a great alibi!"

The inspector giggled, covering his mouth with his paw. "Worth listening to, I can tell."

Basil nodded at Mrs. Judson, who walked in with a steaming teapot and additional cups on a tray. Then he gave a long, thoughtful look to Adams, whose paws were clenching on the arm rests of the chair.

"Calm down and tell us everything. I promise nothing" he said, seeing a glint of hope in the client's eye, "except to listen to what you have to say."

"That's still more than the police would do" the yellowish mouse hissed, squinting at the impassive Gregson.


	2. Chapter 2

My name is Roger Adams. I'll honestly admit you'd find more members of this family in the chronicles of crime than those of high society. My family was poor. Except only my uncle, Michael Adams... but, I'm getting ahead of myself. Uncle's part in this story could be really called a walk-on, for now it'll suffice to say he left to seek his fortune in Australia when I was a child, and for years I haven't seen him.

In the meantime, well. I got in with the bad crowd, as they say. Wasn't as bad as it could be. Sometimes I did honestly earn my living, though it was never much of a living.

You might know this vaudeville theatre on Cramer Street, "The Orange Shop?" I got a job there as an assistant stage manager, and the manager was Webster. I see you know the name, mister Basil. Back then, though, Webster, a humble stage manager, taciturn and brusque, was only known to a very tight circle of his colleagues, numerous neither in theatre nor in his real profession. He turned no one's attention, none but mine, a curious scamp. I saw him give out tremendous loans and never even remind his debtors about them. With no second thought pay the rent of a chorus girl whose landlady threatened to leave her homeless. Buy the best alcohols for his colleagues. I never saw him run out of money, I cannot recall him ever excusing himself with the lack of it, even though he always dressed simply, sloppily even. He wore resoled boots.

I was in fever for this mystery. Of course, I started sniffing around. Webster might have hidden the source of his fortune from the police and the theatre management, but sooner or later he had to make a mistake. I kept him under a tight watch.

Today, over ten years after his famous trial, you are too much aware that he was a safe cracker. Back then, for me, this was a shock at first, and then... I was young. I've committed several petty thefts. To me, Webster was like an admiral to a cabin boy. It is no exaggeration when I say I'd give my life to join his band, and with much effort I did join it. I never touched one safe, cease your laughing, inspector. Webster always said I was cack-handed and likely to alarm half the City with my bungling, but I'd stand watch. I always got a share. Now I could afford anything I wanted, and yet...

My conscience stirred from its long slumber. I struggled against it for the longest time, in the end I'd see a policeman behind the corner, waiting to get us, during a robbery. That, I'd live with, but I was unable to sleep in peace anymore. Finally I went to the police and sang.

The court looked another way when it came to judging me, since I was the informer. The rest of the band was locked up, Webster only for ten years, since there wasn't enough evidence for his previous robberies. Myself, I mended my ways. Difficult to believe as it may sound. My uncle returned from Australia with a considerable wealth, but in very poor health, and having no children of his own he took me under his wing, taught as much as he was still able. He also bequeathed me his money, which I have used well.

You know, gentlemen, since you read newspapers, that today I am the owner of a quite successful bank, a well-regarded mouse. My past, a petty thief and a theatre worker, was forgotten. By myself, as well. And yet it caught up with me.

Several weeks ago I learned of Webster's release. His sentence ended. I admit, my first reaction, maybe a tad overly strong, was to reinforce the security in my bank. For a couple of days I didn't dare leave my burrow, until I got my wits back and persuaded myself that I have been unreasonable. Webster wouldn't mug me, he was not a thug, but a specialist safe cracker. Always avoided violence. In any case, all the news I had of him were that he's back in "The Orange Shop". Relief was quick to follow.

And now we've arrived at the most important part of my story.

You must have heard of lady Alexandra Shelley and her famous charity parties. One of them was being held that night when... I had been invited. I did consider refusing, but then persuaded myself that a little entertainment would do a world of good to my nerves, and in the end walked into the ballroom at the hour appointed.

That's where I first saw miss Montgomery.

A lovely young American, a traveller, staying in London while her father, colonel Montgomery, is busy with some important family business in a remote hamlet in Scotland. Enraged that such a graceful young lady has no arm to lean on in London, I was more than glad to assume the role. We've danced several waltzes, but, since none of us was in the mood to stay in a stuffy ballroom, and the sky had just cleared, we went out for a walk. The rest of the evening was spent in a delightful discussion on literature and art - miss Montgomery is quite knowledgeable on the matters theatrical - until, taking a leaf from the American book, I walked her to her apartment.

I was home long past midnight, the lady's visiting card in my pocket - here it is - to go to bed in a very good mood that lasted me till the morning. Which is when I was delivered a telegram informing me of a robbery in my bank. I went there immediately. The police was already on site.

I was told the robbers went in from above, through a crack in the floor of the human shop over the bank. It came as no surprise. Of course I thought of Webster, I couldn't get him out of my mind even upon seeing the safe drilled open. You see, mister Basil, I was quite proud of that safe, custom-made from the best tin candy boxes in several different sizes, this isn't the time or place for a lecture on how strongboxes are made. Webster never touched the casing. He approached locks like worthy opponents.

When this officer here told me mine was opened - unlocked! - and only after emptying it, drilled to throw the police on a false track, my suspicion became certainty. I managed to convince the policemen to interrogate Webster the same morning, but he is a shrewd one. During the time the robbery might have taken place, a performance was in full swing in "The Orange Shop". All the theatre employees confirm seeing Webster work behind stage. I decided to stay patient, to simply wait for this blatant lie to be exposed, but, unfortunately, I had been too optimistic.

Yesterday inspector here paid me a visit in my burrow, accompanied by several of his mice.

"Oh, splendid to see you" I greeted them. "I hope you bring good news."

"Yes" inspector Gregson said, with a gesture refusing an armchair I was showing him, "excellent, but not for you, mister Adams. I looked through your file."

"Really. What of it?"

"Quite a lot. Especially when we consider that you know the code for the lock."

"What are you suggesting-" I started, but the junior policemouse, who must have slipped out of the room when I wasn't paying attention, walked in, carrying a large canvas sack. He dropped it on the floor. There was a clank of metal.

"See, here they are. Where have you found them, Huxley?"

"You have no right-" but the young policemouse drowned me out with a click of his boots.

"The pantry, sir" he reported. All I was able to do was stare dumbly at the inspector, who checked the contents of the sack, then nodded.

"We have the right and we have the duty, mister Adams. We're taking you."

Feeling cold steel on my wrists, I instinctively struggled.

"Why would I steal from myself?"

The inspector tutted. "Don't play games. Who do you take me for, a fool? Not yourself, mister Adams, your clients. Have you forgotten it's their money?"

"It's Webster!" I shouted, my nerves out of control now. "It must have been him!"

"There, there. Come quietly, maybe you'll get a shorter sentence. Webster has an alibi."

"An alibi! What about mine? I was on lady Alexandra's ball!"

"Which you left early, allegedly accompanied by a young lady, unknown to anybody."

"Unknown? That was miss Susan Montgomery, I have her address here."

I wrestled out of the policeman's grip to get at the writing desk, where the card was laying. It took some effort to convince the inspector, rigid as he is, but I was resolute and my persistence brought fruit at last. We went to the burrow where miss Montgomery was renting rooms.

I knocked. A grey, stooping old mouse opened.

"Good morning, is miss Montgomery home?"

"Montgomery who?" She was going to shut the door, but I managed to wriggle into the corridor, dark and empty, quite unlike the elegant vestibule I've seen before. I run inside before the policeman thought to stop me and stopped dead at the door of her apartment. The door that should have led to her apartment, that was slightly ajar, showing... instead of delicately patterned wallpaper, flaking paint. Instead of tasteful furniture, a cigar box and an overturned thread spool, upon which a huge, ginger mouse sat, his shirt disheveled, trying to focus his eyes and thread a human-sized needle. I fell, hitting the wall.

And so, confused, unable to resist, I was led out, then brought to the police station where I spent the night in a cell, mulling over not the ways to save myself, but whether or not have I gone mad. Miss Montgomery couldn't have vanished without a trace. How? Whatever for? The morning near, my feverish mind finally recalled you, mister Basil. I've read about you in the papers. If anyone can solve this riddle, it's him, I thought and firmly demanded to be allowed a meeting with you.


	3. Chapter 3

Adams hung his head. After a moment of silence he raised his glassed over, feverish eyes at Basil.

"You are the only one who can find her. Money is no issue! She alone stands between me and my ruin!"

Pensive, Basil fingered the stem of his pipe.

"The case is not entirely devoid of interest."

"A pitiful attempt at shedding responsibility" Gregson snorted.

"I said the truth! Every word-"

"If I may" Basil broke in "have the police been looking for miss Montgomery?"

"We've asked the hole inhabitants" the inspector shrugged.

"Of course" Adams muttered, leaning back in his chair. "You know everything."

Gregson glared at him, while Basil reached for the card on the table to raise it to the light.

"We may yet be able to find the mysterious miss Montgomery" he said softly, making both the policemouse and the unhappy banker stare at him, surprised.

"Have you deduced something from the card?" I asked, but he only tilted his head, still perusing the card, until at last he put it in his pocket. He took a notebook out instead.

"Mister Adams, can I ask you for a description of the missing lady?"

"Of course. She's small, slim, silver gray with a distinct black spot on her cheek. Holds herself straight, speaks confidently, with much wit and a pronounced accent."

"What sort of an accent?"

"She told me she was raised in Boston."

Basil took note of this detail. Shaking his head, Gregson caught sight of the watch over our mantelshelf.

"We have wasted enough time satisfying your curiosity" he said sternly, getting up. His captive shot Basil the last desperate look.

"Good bye, Gregson" my friend walked them to the door. "Mister Adams, try to be in good spirits."

"We're going, Adams" Gregson caught the arrested mouse's shoulder to steer him out into the rain. Basil, after closing the door, watched after them for a while through the glass panel in it.

Then he returned to his fireside place, sank in his armchair and rested his chin on his folded paws.

"Yes, doctor" he said after a moment of silence.

"We are dealing with an audacious thief, that much is obvious."

"But?"

"You can surely see this wasn't about the money, since it was hidden in the victim's pantry. What was it about?"

"You told me once some criminals committed their crimes for sport, for the thrill-"

He laughed merrily. "Yes, dear friend. Doesn't it strike you as odd, though, that two different misfortunes would befall our client independently?"

"Ah, so you suspect that miss Montgomery had been a distraction? That she was a party to this?"

"She surely was."

"But Basil" I objected "wouldn't it be enough to let him stay at the party? And anyway, it's hard to imagine him watching his bank strongbox at nights!"

"Excellent, Dawson. You have a very good point."

I looked modestly down, happy with the praise, rose and stretched. "Come on, then."

"Where to?"

Instead of an answer he gave me the missing mouse's card.

"But... we won't find her at this address?"

"We won't."

"You think there are some clues left there?" I asked, taking my coat, but Basil shook his head.

"I doubt they'd be of use, even if there were any. In any case, we're not going to visit miss Montgomery, but the printer who made the card for her."

He snorted, seeing my bafflement, and pulled the card out of my paw.

""Look" he said, holding it up to the light. "High quality paper, looks like cut out from a catalogue, doesn't it? Not like the margin of an everyday paper."

"No, it's more like a better class of a periodical" I agreed.

"Confirmed by the watermark a fragment of which we can see in the corner. And here, see. The print humans covered this page with."

"It's only a line!" I opposed.

"Enough to recognize the typeface."

"You think you know where this paper comes from?" He nodded. "What of it?"

"I know which printer in mouse London has secured for himself a constant supply of paper from this very catalogue, by an exclusive agreement" he said, hiding the card in his coat pocket.

* * *

The printers was not far from Baker Street, to my great relief, for it had started to rain again, turning the street into a tumultuous stream. Fortunately the printer, a stooping mouse with white streaks on his face, welcomed us wholeheartedly in a warm, dry office strewn with a colourful variety of papers. I stood stiff in the middle of the room for fear of getting water on something, while Basil brightly looked around.

"I see, Clarke, you've been making theatre posters" he noted, his gaze over the motley of prints on the wall.

"Ah, yes, yes. Much commissions lately, mister Basil, quite much."

"Among others" he twitched his whisker "posters for 'the Orange Shop'."

"Oh, nice work, isn't it?" the printer rubbed his paws, looking with fatherly pride at a colourful poster, resplendent over the table. "Like 'em, they did."

"No doubt. Didn't you print anything else for them?"

Clarke went around the table to start picking up papers and putting them down again.

"We print a lot for them" he said evenly, his eyes down. "Posters, programmes. Though since White died-" he stopped.

"Since White died?"

"Mister Basil" the old printer straightened his back with a sigh. "I barely knew him. He's bring designs over. Paid the bills squarely. The police had asked me all sorts of questions when he drowned himself, I don't know why."

"Drowned himself?" Basil frowned, and the printer shook his head.

"He had some money trouble. I don't know. The youth of today, everything's too hard for them."

"Mister Clarke" my friend said gently, "had White ever confided in you?"

"No, no, course not. We barely knew each other. He was always merry as a lark. You never know... Here, look at this, isn't the paper pretty? Straight from a catalogue."

* * *

"We still lack some details" Basil said pensively when we went out into the rain.

"Do we" I muttered. At the moment my chief interest has been getting back home.

"You know how the Master keeps saying it's a great mistake to draw conclusions without all the data."

"Of course, I heard it frequently."

"Something tells me that suicide is connected to our case. How? What made him do this?"

"I admit, Basil, I can't see the connection."

"Perhaps there isn't any" he sighed "it's still a hypothesis. Here we are, the 'Orange Shop'."

We were standing under the stairs of a human colonial goods shop, at the entrance, painstakingly hidden from human eyes, to the mouse theatre. From the shadows posters blinked at us with their slightly washed-out colours.

"We part ways here" Basil said. "Keep you eyes open, within reason."

"What about you? Aren't you coming in?"

"I'm going after the more obvious clues, but the key to our mystery may well turn out to be hidden within the 'Orange Shop'. Have fun! See you back on Baker Street!"

With this he left, dissolving in the gray wall of rain, his paws deep in the pockets of his coat, leaving me on the pavement at the variete theatre. For a while, watching after my departing friend, I was mulling all we've learned over in my head, unable to arrive at any sort of conclusion, especially in this cold. The missing lady ordered her calling cards at the very same printers that made posters for the theatre, but I couldn't see why this would be important. Did Basil suspect the actors of kidnapping?

I shuddered violently, pierced with a gust of cold. Rubbing my paws, I stepped into the "Orange Shop".


	4. Chapter 4

Next morning, I overslept the breakfast, and when I came downstairs, Basil was sitting by the fire, smoking his pipe. I poured myself a cup of tea, and he nodded.

"What have you learned?"

In the theatre I discovered nothing, despite how diligently I've been looking around, all the tips he'd given me on various occasions in my mind. Yet, when, stumbling, I confessed as much to Basil, he merely smiled a little.

"Oh, Dawson. You didn't even think to go backstage? Talk to the stage manager?"

"No" I stammered, and he laughed out loud.

"My dear," he finally said, wiping his eyes "you can't think watching an operetta, even a good one, could give you a clue for investigation?"

Slightly offended I fixed my eyes on my teacup, while he went on "I spent the last evening in a much more useful way."

"You know what happened to miss Montgomery?"

"I know now for sure miss Montgomery is a fabrication."

"How did she come to the party, then?" I muttered wryly, and Basil rested his chin on his steepled paws.

"Not by invitation, of course. I spoke to lady Alexandra. Although it were her servants who really helped."

"Adams made her up, then?" I took a sip of tea, rubbing at my forehead.

"I never said that. I have no doubt he spent that evening on a walk, accompanied by a young, outspoken mouse who introduced herself thusly."

"To protect her reputation?" I ventured. Basil shook his head. I watched him for a moment.

"She's drawn his attention..."

"Why?" Basil cut in.

"What for?"

He looked at me, a twinkle in his eye. "If the burglars were so worried about getting Adams out of the way, it would have been safer to keep him at the party, which would have been easy to do for a bright young lady. Besides, we know they cached their spoils in Adams pantry. No, I think the 'Orange Shop' deserves more attention. We'll both go there this evening."

Meantime, he busied himself with his notes and I, seeing I wouldn't learn anything else till the evening came, reached for a cheese bun.

* * *

"The Orange Shop" mostly played operettas. Basil assured me later on the one we saw that evening was quite hilarious, but I, despite vaguely recalling explosions of laughter in the audience, despite having seen the play twice in so many days, can remember nothing of it. My gaze kept wandering to the curtains, I imagined the dark shadows of stage hands bustling on the other side of them, I barely managed to sit still. Finally a young actress with silver gray fur sang the last aria, the curtain dropped along merry music, and we could go backstage.

Basil cast a last glance at the programme he was holding before knocking at the door.

"Good evening" he said, bowing courteously. "I'd like to see miss Joan Lewis."

"Montgomery" I muttered, before a swift kick in the shin silenced me. The mouse who opened, slim, her black fur contrasting strongly with the golden gauze of her costume, narrowed her eyes. "What do you want from her?"

"Miss Lewis is in position to save an innocent mouse-" my friend started, but was interrupted by an ironic snort. We both looked back.

Leaning against the wall, an individual in work-clothes was looking at us with unconcealed amusement.

"Bit of advice" he said lightly "if there's pictures of you in all the papers, going unrecognised takes a little work."

"Indubitably" my friend approached the newcomer, while I kept one eye on them and the other on the chorus-mouse, posed with her paw on the door frame.

For a moment Basil and the coverall wearing mouse were eyeing each other up. Then my friend said "I was allowed access to mister Adams' files by the police."

"That's not even half of it there, but good enough. You know he's a crook. What d'you lie for?"

Basil cleared his throat softly, and the other added "Webster did his time, we're not having you touch Joanie, let alone the cops. If you wanna arrest someone-"

"I'm not arresting anyone" Basil interrupted. "All I want to know is why did you take justice into your own paws!"

"It was the only way we could have it" said another voice. From the shadows a large mouse appeared, also wearing work clothes. His fur was gray with streaks of dirty white.

"Webster, I presume" Basil said.

"That's me."

"Very complicated, your revenge plan."

An odd look flickered on Webster's face.

"Employment of miss Lewis for help at the party was not a problem. Lady Alexandra always hires several additional servants for her parties, so it's no wonder she paid little attention to a silver-furred scullery maid, especially with such a great actress playing the role. And when she was in there, all it took was a telegram calling her to her injured father's bedside to make a servant girl vanish in such a manner that nobody would think twice about it. Now it was only a matter of a dress, borrowed from the theatre wardrobe and a smudge of black ink of the cheek to create a young lady of characteristic looks who could effortlessly allure a middle-aged gentleman away. But if you only wanted to keep him away from the bank, miss Montgomery would not be needed. He was already at the party. Why would a young lady, heedless of her own repute, lead Adams out of there, depriving him of an excellent alibi for the robbery? You framed him in the coldest way possible."

"Very nice, mister sleuth, very nice" Webster's colleague clapped his paws.

"And why would we do that, eh? What is, in your opinion, our gripe with this paragon of society?" After these words, his mouth contorted in disgust.

"His confession" Basil started, but suddenly Webster cut in.

"I read your colleague's stories" with a slight nod at me, he continued "and I know you're heart is on the right side. Listen to me. Then you'll decide for yourself."

His companion opened his mouth, but Webster gestured at him to be silent. Then he started his tale.


	5. Chapter 5

My name is Henry Webster. I am - I was - a safe-cracker. I'm not going to bore you with the story of how I became one, nor will I excuse myself with youthful folly. The truth is I robbed banks. I deserved the punishment I got.

You know, of course, how I ended up in prison. Yes, it's true, Adams sold me. That wasn't the worst of his deeds, possibly one of his best. I see this needs explanation.

I had a good friend here, in "The Orange Shop". Jamie White knew enough of my misdeeds to bend my ear about it. He kept trying to convince me to mend my ways, talked and talked, and all the while I would shrug off his good advice. He never gave up, staunch optimist that he was. When, in prison, I got a letter from him, at first I thought I'd read triumph in it, I wanted to throw the letter away, unopened. But I made myself open it. This is what saved me.

That was the sort of a moment that shows true friendships. We kept writing regularly for the next ten years, the last letter I received a week before my sentence ended, so I had been well informed, knowing, among other things, my friend kept his money in Adams's bank, the interests being meagre, by the way. I advised him against it. Once a traitor, I wrote, always a traitor, but Jamie joked at my worries. His usual answer was that I've changed. Why wouldn't Adams?

My sentence ended. I returned to London. Owing to Jamie's prudence, my old job in "The Orange Shop" was waiting for me. We were supposed to meet here, but walking in, I found Jamie's colleagues in mourning.

The police deemed it a suicide, astounding all of us, everyone who ever knew Jamie. Putting our heads together we managed to find out he was not the only mouse to mysteriously lose all the money on a savings account in Adams's bank right before they fell from a great height, under the wheels of a speeding cab or into the paws of an especially fast cat... Throughout the mouse London, in bare holes, there are orphans and widows whose inheritance went to Adams's pocket. Even Jamie, his soul white as his name, wouldn't argue about this particular rat we smelled. We couldn't just leave this.

I've been a thief and never deny it, but he... The police was right out. It was the stolen money that protected Adams - who'd believe a group of actors when they accuse a rich, esteemed gentlemouse.

"And so, you came up with this elaborate trap" Basil nodded. "Theatre workers had no trouble building a set in a burrow belonging to one of them, then dismantling it after Adams left."

For a moment we were all silent. Finally Basil nodded at Webster, then at me.

"Well, Dawson, time to go."

Webster's black eyes bore into him, tense.

"To the police?"

"Home. I was hired to find miss Susan Montgomery from Boston. Having discovered with certainty such person never existed, I see no reason to waste any more time."

He extended his paw towards Webster, who shook it, his face unreadable.

"For future reference, mister Webster, please remember courts in our kingdom are less biased than you think."

* * *

"I still don't understand, Basil" I said when, wet through, we stood at the door of our burrow.

"How did you deduce that miss Montgomery was an impostor?"

"I didn't" he replied, opening the door. "I simply asked lady Alexandra. She knew no such person, so I went on to ask the servants after a slim, silver-furred mouse."

"With a black spot" I remembered, but he snorted impatiently.

"You didn't listen. The spot was a characteristic feature for Adams to remember, just stage make-up. Joan Lewis had been hired as a kitchen help, but left soon after the party started, having received a telegram requesting her immediate presence at home.

"Which was their signal?" I asked, rubbing my paws, as they were stiff and painful with cold. Basil crouched in front of the fireplace.

"Exactly. An unassuming scullery maid hid somewhere in the house, a young, well-to-do, slightly naive American lady walked into the ballroom. That's all. I'm sure we'll to hear of miss Lewis and her acting talents yet."

Fire cracked merrily, my friend rose and stretched himself.

"What are you going to tell Adams?"

"What I said in the theatre. Miss Montgomery doesn't exist."

"He won't like this."

"Well" he said with a smile "there's nothing I can do about it."


End file.
